The Ghost Next Door

by R. L. Stine

  What are they doing? Hannah wondered, feeling all of her muscles tighten in dread. A shiver of fear ran down her back as she stepped out from behind the evergreen.

  What are they going to do?

  She made her way quickly across the street and ducked in front of the hedge, her heart pounding.

  She couldn’t hear them. They must be nearly up to the house by now.

  Should she follow them?

  She stood up slowly and raised herself on tiptoes to see over the hedge.

  The three boys, Alan in the lead, followed by Danny and Fred, were bent low, running rapidly across the front of the house. Caught in the dim orange glow of light from the window, Hannah could see their determined expressions.

  Where are they going? What are they planning?

  Hannah watched them run into the darkness around the side of the house.

  Still no sign of Mr. Chesney.

  Keeping close to the hedge, Hannah made her way to the driveway. Then, without thinking about it, without even realizing it, she was running, too.

  She stopped short as she saw Alan shoving Danny up into an open window. Then Fred stepped forward, lifted his hands to the window ledge, and allowed Alan to give him a boost.

  No — please! Hannah wanted to cry.

  Don’t go into the house! Don’t go in there!

  But she was too late.

  All three of them had climbed into the house.

  Breathing hard, Hannah began to creep toward the window.

  But halfway there, she felt something grab her leg and hold her in place.

  Hannah uttered a silent cry.

  She struggled to free her leg — and quickly realized she had stepped into a coiled garden hose.

  Exhaling loudly, she lifted her foot out of it and crept the rest of the way to the open window.

  This side of the house was covered in darkness. The window was too high for Hannah to see into the room.

  Standing beneath the window, Hannah could hear the boys’ sneakers thudding on bare floorboards. She could hear whispering voices and high-pitched, muffled laughter.

  What are they doing in there? she wondered, her entire body tight with fear.

  Don’t they realize how much trouble they could get into?

  Bright lights against the side of the house made Hannah jump back with a startled cry.

  She dropped to the ground and spun around. And saw headlights through the tall hedge. Car headlights floating toward the driveway.

  Mr. Chesney?

  Was he returning home? Returning home in time to catch the three intruders in his house?

  Hannah opened her mouth to call out a warning to the boys. But her voice caught in her throat.

  The headlights floated past. The darkness rolled back over the yard.

  The car rumbled silently on.

  It wasn’t Mr. Chesney, Hannah realized.

  She struggled to her feet and returned to her place below the window. She decided she had to let the boys know she was there. She had to get them out of there!

  “Danny!” she called, wrapping her hands around her mouth as a megaphone. “Get out! Come on — get out now!”

  The feeling of dread weighed her down. She shouted up to the window again. “Come out. Hurry — please!”

  She could hear their muffled voices inside. And she could hear the scrape of sneakers on the floor.

  Staring up at the window, she saw a light come on. Orange light, dim at first, then brighter.

  “Are you crazy?” she shouted in to them. “Turn off the lights!”

  Why on earth were they turning on lights?

  Did they want to get caught?

  “Turn off the lights!” she repeated in a high, shrill, frightened voice.

  But the orange light grew brighter, became a bright yellow.

  And as she stared in horror, Hannah realized the light was flickering.

  Not lamp light.

  Fire light.

  Fire!

  They had set a fire!

  “No!” she screamed, raising her hands to the sides of her face. “No! Get out! Get out of there!”

  She could smell smoke now. She could see the reflection of the leaping flames in the window glass.

  She started to shout to them again — but stopped when she saw the shadow move toward her on the wall of the house.

  Hannah stopped and turned her stare.

  And saw the dark figure, blacker than the night, its red eyes glowing brightly from the blackness of its face.

  It stepped silently toward her, floating rapidly over the tall, weed-strewn grass. Its red eyes appeared to light up as it neared.

  “Hannah — stay away!” the moving shadow called in a voice as dry as dead leaves.

  “Hannah — stay away.”

  “Nooooo!” Hannah uttered a frightened wail as it moved toward her. A burst of frigid air encircled her body. “Noooo!”

  “Hannah … Hannah …”

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

  Behind her, she could hear the crackle of flames now. Yellow light flickered behind choking waves of black smoke from the open window.

  Its fiery eyes glowing brighter, the shadow figure raised itself up, hovered closer, closer, stretching out its arms, preparing to pull her in.

  Gripped with fear, Hannah raised her hands in front of her as if trying to shield herself.

  She heard a sudden scrabbling at the window. A muffled cry above her head.

  The shadow figure vanished.

  And then she felt someone topple onto her.

  They both fell in a heap to the ground.

  “Alan!” she cried.

  He struggled to his feet, his eyes wide with panic. “The matches!” he cried. “The matches! We — we didn’t mean to. We —”

  Another figure came diving out of the window as the crackle of flames grew to a roar. Fred landed hard on his elbows and knees.

  Hannah stared at his dazed face in the darting orange light. “Fred — are you okay?”

  “Danny,” he muttered, gazing at her with horror. “Danny’s in there. He can’t get out.”

  “Huh?” Hannah leapt to her feet.

  “Danny’s trapped in the fire. He’s going to burn!” Alan cried.

  “We have to get help!” Fred said, shouting over the roar of the flames. He pulled Alan by the arm. The two boys took off, running unsteadily across the yard toward the house next door.

  Bright orange-and-yellow flames licked at the windowsill above Hannah’s head.

  I have to save Danny, she thought.

  She took a deep breath, gazing up at the flickering, flashing light of the fire. Then she started toward the open window.

  But before she could take a step, the light from the window disappeared. The shadow rose in front of her.

  “Hannah — go away.” Its frightening, harsh whisper was so close to her face. “Go away.”

  “No!” Hannah screamed, forgetting her fear. “I have to save Danny.”

  “Hannah … you will not save him!” came the raspy reply.

  The dark figure, eyes afire, hovered over her, blocking Hannah’s path to the window.

  “Let me go!” she screamed. “I have to save him!”

  The red eyes loomed closer. The darkness fell heavier around her.

  “Who are you?” Hannah shrieked. “What are you? What do you want?”

  The dark figure didn’t reply. The glowing eyes burned into hers.

  Danny is trapped in there, Hannah thought. I have to get in that window.

  “Move out of my way!” she screamed. And in her desperation, she reached out with both hands — grabbed the dark figure by the shoulders — and tried to shove it out of the way.

  To Hannah’s shock, the figure felt solid. With a determined cry, she raised her hands to its face — and tugged.

  The darkness that cloaked its face fell away — and beneath the darkness, Danny’s face was revealed!

  H
annah stared in horror and disbelief, struggling to breathe. The sour odor choked her. The darkness continued to wrap around her, holding her prisoner.

  Danny grinned back at her, with the same glowing red eyes as before he’d been unmasked.

  “No!” Hannah cried, her voice a hoarse whisper, tight with fear. “It isn’t you, Danny. It isn’t!”

  A cruel smile played over the figure’s glowing face. “I am Danny’s ghost!” he declared.

  “Ghost?” Hannah tried to pull back. But the darkness held her tightly.

  “I am Danny’s ghost. When he dies in the fire, I will no longer be a shadow. I will be BORN — and Danny will go to the shadow world in my place!”

  “No! No!” Hannah shrieked, raising her fists in front of her. “No! Danny will not die! I won’t let him!”

  Danny’s ghost opened its mouth and uttered a foul-smelling laugh. “You’re too late, Hannah!” he sneered. “Too late.”

  “Nooooooo!”

  Hannah’s wail echoed in the darkness that surrounded her.

  The ghost-Danny’s red eyes flared angrily as Hannah burst right through him.

  A second later, she was raising her hands to the window ledge. “Oh!” The sill was hot from the fire.

  Using all her strength, she pulled herself up toward the darting flames — and into the house. A curtain of thick, sour smoke rose up to greet her.

  Ignoring the smoke and the bright wall of fire, Hannah lowered herself heavily onto the floor.

  I’m a ghost, she told herself, stepping into the blazing room.

  I’m a ghost. I can’t die again.

  She rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her T-shirt, struggling to see. “Danny?” she called, shouting as loudly as she could. “Danny — I can’t see you! Where are you?”

  Shielding her eyes with one hand, Hannah took another step into the room. Flames shot up like bright geysers. Wallpaper on one wall had curled down, the blackened corner covered with leaping flames.

  “Danny — where are you?”

  She heard a muffled shout from the next room. Dashing through the flame-encircled doorway, she saw him — trapped behind a tall wall of flames.

  “Danny!”

  He was backed into a corner, his hands raised together in front of him, shielding his face from the smoke.

  I can’t get through those thick flames, Hannah realized to her horror.

  She took another step into the room, then held back.

  No way.

  No way I can save him.

  But once again, she reminded herself: I am a ghost. I can do things that living people cannot do.

  “Help me! Help me!”

  Danny’s voice sounded tiny and far away behind the leaping waves of flame.

  Without another second’s hesitation, Hannah sucked in a deep breath, held it — and leapt into the flames.

  “Help me!” He stared at her, his eyes blank. He didn’t seem to see her. “Help!”

  “Come on!” She grabbed his hand and tugged. “Let’s go!”

  The flames bent toward them, like fiery arms reaching to grab them.

  “Come on!”

  She tugged again, but he held back. “We can’t make it!”

  “Yes — we have to!” she shouted.

  The heat burned her nostrils. She shut her eyes against the blinding yellow brightness. “We have to!”

  She grabbed his hand with both of hers and pulled.

  Black smoke swirled around them. Choking, she shut her eyes and pulled him, pulled him into the searing, blistering heat of the flames.

  Into the flames.

  Through them.

  Coughing and choking. Dripping with perspiration from the furnacelike heat.

  Pulled him. Pulled blindly. Pulled with all her might.

  She didn’t open her eyes until they were at the window.

  She didn’t breathe until they had tumbled to the cool darkness of the ground.

  Then, on her hands and knees, panting so loudly, gasping for clean air, she gazed up.

  There was the shadow figure near the house, twisting in flames. As the fire consumed it, it raised its dark arms toward the sky — and vanished without making a sound.

  With a relieved sigh, Hannah lowered her gaze to Danny.

  He was lying sprawled on his back, a dazed expression on his face. “Hannah,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hannah, thanks.”

  She felt a smile start to cross her face.

  Everything turned bright, as bright as the wall of flames.

  Then everything went black.

  Danny’s mother leaned over him, pulling the light blanket up to his chest. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

  It was two hours later. Danny had been treated by the paramedics who arrived shortly after the firefighters. They told his worried mother that he was suffering from smoke inhalation and had a few minor burns.

  After treating the burns, they drove Danny and Mrs. Anderson home.

  Now Danny lay in bed, staring up at her, still feeling groggy and dazed. Mrs. Quilty stood anxiously in the corner, her arms clasped tensely in front of her, looking on in silence. She had hurried over to see what the commotion was.

  “I — I’m okay, I guess,” Danny said, pulling himself up a bit on the pillow. “I’m just a little tired.”

  His mother pushed a lock of blond hair off her forehead as she stared down at him, reading his lips. “How did you ever get out? How did you get out of the house?”

  “It was Hannah,” Danny told her. “Hannah pulled me out.”

  “Who?” Mrs. Anderson knotted her face in confusion. “Who is Hannah?”

  “You know,” Danny replied impatiently. “The girl next door.”

  “There’s no girl next door,” his mother said. “Is there, Molly?” She turned to read Mrs. Quilty’s lips.

  Mrs. Quilty shook her head. “The house is empty.”

  Danny sat up straight. “Her name is Hannah Fairchild. She saved my life, Mom.”

  Mrs. Quilty tsk-tsked sympathetically. “Hannah Fairchild is the girl who died five years ago,” she said quietly. “Poor Danny is a bit delirious, I’m afraid.”

  “Just lie back,” Danny’s mother said, gently pushing him back onto the pillow. “Get some rest. You’ll be fine.”

  “But where is Hannah? Hannah is my friend!” Danny insisted.

  Hannah watched the scene from the doorway.

  The three people in the room couldn’t see her, she realized.

  She had saved Danny’s life, and now the room and the people in it were growing faint, fading to gray.

  Maybe that’s why my family and I came back after five years, Hannah thought. Maybe we came back to save Danny from dying in a fire as we did.

  “Hannah … Hannah …” A voice called to her. A sweet, familiar voice from far away.

  “Is that you, Mom?” Hannah called.

  “Time to come back,” Mrs. Fairchild whispered. “You must leave now, Hannah. It’s time to come back.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  She gazed into the bedroom at Danny, lying peacefully on his pillow. He was fading away now, fading to gray.

  Hannah squinted into the solid grayness. The house, she knew, was fading. The earth was fading from her sight.

  “Come back, Hannah,” her mother whispered. “Come back to us now.”

  Hannah could feel herself floating now. And as she floated, she gazed down — her last look at earth.

  “I can see him, Mom,” she said excitedly, brushing the tears off her cheeks. “I can see Danny. In his room. But the light is getting faint. So faint.”

  “Hannah, come back. Come back to us,” her mother whispered, calling her home.

  “Danny — remember me!” Hannah cried, as Danny’s face appeared clearly in the misty gray.

  Could he hear her?

  Could he hear her calling to him?

  She hoped so.

  I have a ’57 Chevy Impala in my room. It’s two-tone blue with red-a
nd-silver flame detailing on the sides and fins.

  And I have a ’92 Firebird V-8 with a twin-cam engine and black leather interior. And I have an ’83 silver Camaro that I haven’t finished putting together.

  Yes, they’re models. I’ve filled the bookshelves along my bedroom wall with model cars that I’ve built.

  Dad says he’s going to build shelves on the other wall to hold the new ones. But that would cover up my race car posters.

  I don’t want to do that. I love my car posters. One of them is even signed by Mario Andretti. If you’re not into cars, I’d better explain that he’s a very famous race car driver. In fact, he’s a legend.

  My name is Mitchell Moinian. I’m twelve, and I’m kind of a legend, too. That’s because I know more about cars than anybody in my school.

  Sometimes my friends Allan and Steve and I have a contest. We stand on the corner outside my house and see who can be the first to identify the cars that come by.

  I win every time. I can identify cars with my eyes closed!

  That’s because I read stacks and stacks of car magazines. And when I’m not reading about cars or building models of cars, I like to draw cars.

  Know what I dream about at night? That’s right — I dream that I’m driving cars.

  Anyway, I guess my story starts on a peaceful Saturday afternoon. It had rained all morning, and a few raindrops, blown by the wind, still tapped against my bedroom window.

  I didn’t care. I like the sound of rain when I’m inside working on a model. I leaned over my worktable, studying the diagrams for the silver Camaro.

  It was pretty complicated. There were a million pieces to this one. I mean, you don’t just glue slot A to tab B and call it a Camaro!

  I had the chassis built. And I was carefully fitting together fiberglass parts to the body — when my brother, Todd, came bursting into the room, screaming his head off.

  “Hey!” I jumped — and cracked a fender. The fiberglass split in my fist.

  “You jerk!” I screamed. “Look what you made me do!”

  Todd didn’t even look down at the broken fender. “Hurry! Help me!” he cried. “You’ve got to come — quick!”

  Todd is seven. He’s not into cars. I don’t know what he’s into.